This Thanksgiving, there will be no No Shirt Cousins or Texas cousins or even Chase. It will just be my brother and my mom and dad and me, which should be nice and quiet, with at least 90% less Disney movies and Wild Turkey and sibling abuse.
My little brother got home from college late last night, so now my whole family is under the same roof again. Today I walked outside and our neighbors were playing a huge intergenerational game of football on their lawn in the leaves with their shiny hair and J. Crew sweaters, but I much prefer the cozy feeling I get from sitting in front of the fire while my dad snores through Cosby Show reruns on Nick at Nite, and my mother and brother discuss the merit of putting Jessica Simpson on the cover of Rolling Stone in the next room.
Today I made two pies, prepared the dressing, ran with my dad, went for a ride in my brother’s friend’s gold-with-white-leather-interior ’70 Oldsmobile Cutlass convertible, and hung out with some small children who inadvertedly unzipped my sweater, exposed my underthings to everyone in the room, and then gravely whispered, “Sarah, I am so sorry that I saw your privates.” Tonight I’m going to go take it on the run with all of my friends at good old Caz’s, home of the yellow walls and red corner booth and girls named Tara, where I expect pretty much the same thing to happen.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.